


Loving You's a Dirty Job (But Somebody's Gotta Do It)

by Filigranka



Category: Historical RPF
Genre: Gen, Mentions of F/M, Mentions of Izabela Czartoryska, oh. mentions of Catherine too. of course, politics in the background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 23:07:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9464573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/pseuds/Filigranka
Summary: Just a little conversation between two heartbroken men.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nabielka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabielka/gifts).



> Many thanks for my beta, lirin!

Not many things could surprise Repnin in Warsaw. He liked to think he’d seen it all, both here and at home—honest patriots being offended by the offer of too low a bribe (or, Heaven forbid, lower than the one given to their political opponent, “that unpatriotic, traitorous swine!”); people on their knees begging God’s forgiveness for breaking the  Friday fast but not bothering to do so much as cross themselves over making forays into their neighbours’  villages; kings so weak they needed to ask their subjects for things like a pension.

So, Repnin wasn’t shocked when, upon coming to the King Stanisław’s chambers, he found the poor little kingling whimpering and crying. Honestly, he wasn’t even mildly startled. He knew that the letter from Cath—Her Majesty—had arrived earlier that day. A child could predict the outcome.

Normally, Nikolai would be the first to twist the knife in the wound and mock Stanisław to the Caucasus and back—but not today. Today he was full of male solidarity.

Stanisław gulped and almost choked.

Nikolai shot him a condescending glance. He, at least, planned to suffer like a man—loudly and clearly, so the whole world would hear his cries and give him its sympathy.

‘Is it that obvious?’ asked Stanisław weakly, finally leaving the papers to their—undoubtedly very boring—fate and clasping his hands atop of them.

Well, yes, it is, thought Repnin. He would gladly tell him that—but not today.

‘Are you asking me for honesty or compassion?’ he asked, not bothering with the royal titles. They weren’t worth much in that country either way.

Stanisław considered the question for a moment. Nikolai found the behaviour rather charming in its naivety.

‘A little of both, I presume,’ sighed Stanisław.

Nikolai laughed. ‘Always believing in _moderatio_ and other French ideas?’

‘They’re ideas of classics, of Rome and Ancient Greece. France is just... readjusting them to modern times.’

‘And where are the great Rome and the wise Ancient Greece now?’ Repnin let the words leave his mouth without thinking and immediately regretted it. The Tsarina loved French philosophers and their ideas. She wouldn’t be happy if somebody informed her that her ambassadors treated that matter with such a nonchalance. Not to mention scepticism. Scepticism was good only when pointed at the foreign monarchies.

Besides, Moscow was the Third Rome, the ultimate Rome. Everybody knew that.

‘And what do the classics tell you about love, mon ami?’

Stanisław sighed heavily. ‘That it’s a dark, twisted and tangled thing, impossible to understand and explain by the rational mind.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘And yet we’re all slaves to her... to it—’

To her, too, definitely, crossed Nikolai’s mind. He wasn’t sure what face was attached to that thought.

‘—since you’re here to talk about Izabela. She sent you into her antechambers, didn’t she?’

Damn this backwater city and its rumours. Repnin clenched his teeth, just for the briefest of moments—and then he tried to cover the faux pas with humour.

‘Ha! I am less mysterious than I’d like to presume. How did you know?’

‘Would you prefer the truth or a bandage for your pride... I mean, honour?’

Nikolai laughed in earnest, then. ‘Things would be a lot easier if you would be as cunning and convincing of a rhetorician in the Sejm of your republic as you are now...’

‘I am exactly as good an orator here as there. You’re just the easier audience. And the matter is less important...’ He glanced at the papers, suddenly looking very tired and very, very guilty. ‘I should be working. Rzeczplita—my patria needs me.’

‘Sovereign and noble Rzeczpospolita mostly doesn’t care about you.’ Just like Her Majesty; but no honourable man could say such a thing to another, not when said another was so miserably in love. ‘Nothing is more important than love. Now, tell me, whose bribes should I cut off?’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Please, you know as well as I do that people of the republic love to be bribed. So, who informed you about...’ he hesitated, ‘...me and Izabela?’

‘Nobody has to. You came here, knowing full well I’d be in a sweetly nostalgic mood, since Catherine sent a letter to you, too—she writes to you oftener than to me, these days...’ He paused, looking forward with misty eyes.

‘Izabela,’ Nikolai reminded him. Gentlemen’s solidarity had its limits, too.

‘You came here, to me, instead of spending the evening with her. You would never do that willingly. So, she threw you out. Should I ask why?’

‘You should. It’s all your fault. She thinks our new projects are hurting the state and endangering the independence of the country.’

‘So, she’s right. _Nihil novi sub sole_ , she always was a very intelligent woman. And it’s Cathe—Russia’s new project, not mine.’

‘It’s Russian, so it’s yours, and so I said ours.’ Repnin let a threat slip into his voice. _Salus Russia suprema lex, homo homini lupus est, et cetera_ , as the ancient  classics said. If only Izabela would see it that way...

‘Did you try telling her it’s all Catherine’s fault?’

Repnin chuckled. Rather gloomily. ‘Oh, I did. She said she had heard enough about Catherine, both from you and me, and how dare I talk about another woman in her presence, don’t I see it hurt her—I’m not joking, she said I hurt her, I! like I could hurt ma chérie Isabelle!—and she demanded—demanded—that I leave her house. I’m just a suitor, not her bloody cold as fish husband, so what could I do?‘

‘Adam Kazimierz is not cold as fish.’

That, thought Nikolai, is the problem with this country. The king who tried to chivalrously defend the man who was clearly shaping up to be his opponent. ‘I wasn’t talking about politics,’ he retorted sharply. ‘Izabela send for her _ami_ Armand. _Ami_ Armand, can you imagine?’

‘Easily. Armand Louis de Gontaut is anything but cold and inamicable. So, Izabela broke your heart. You’re hardly the only one—‘

‘It’s not worthy of a king—of a noble man—to touch wounds such as this one. But,’ Repnin smiled beatifically, ‘I forgive you, because you’re speaking from experience and broken heart brings even the most honourable men to ma  dness.’

‘Izabela never held my heart to break it. Catherine, though, still...’ Stanisław sighed again and look at the desk, then at his hands, and then, finally, at the liquor cabinet. Wines were mostly Hungarian—for traditional Polish nobles—and French—for more modern circles and the king himself. Repnin counted himself among the enlightened ones, but at that moment he felt a sudden and mighty need for vodka. Plain, peasants’ vodka. The favourite drink of the Great Tsar Peter.

‘Catherine doesn’t love me anymore, does she?” whispered Stanisław.

Yes, definitely vodka. The drink that made you stop thinking. Stop feeling.

‘If I say “yes” will it change your feelings for her?’ Nikolai asked cautiously.

Stanisław shrugged, a half-offended, half-hopeless gesture. ‘Never.’ It sounded like a promise, like a spell taken straight from a chanson de geste.

It sounded like a curse.

‘If I say “no”—if she loves you—will it change anything?’

‘I highly doubt it. She’s a very intelligent woman, too. One should never fall in love with—’

The conversation was taking very wrong, dangerous turn.

‘So,’ interrupted Nikolai, voice full of sugar-sweet happiness, ‘it’s no use for me to answer. Neither for you to ask, nota bene. _Ergo—carpe diem. Let’s drink and forget_!’

‘My work—’

‘What did I tell you about your work? I’m sure Catherine will tell us both what to do.’

‘My patria—’

‘Your patria is forfeited. We are not. Let’s drink, Stasiu. Let’s drink and sing, and dance. You need to practice dancing if you are ever to teach it, _n’est-ce pas_?’


End file.
